


Sometimes Things Get Complicated

by Catchclaw



Series: We Can Make The World Stop [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:34:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel reflects on why winning an argument with a human can be--problematic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes Things Get Complicated

Sometimes, when you are arguing with a human, it can be difficult to know what victory looks like.

Indeed, some arguments become even more complicated, even more difficult to follow, when one tries to have them in bed.

To be clear, I am using the term "in bed" here, as they do, to mean "during engagement in a sexual act."

Or acts.

In my experience, there are some arguments which are almost impossible to settle when both you and the human with whom you are trying to communicate are unclothed. When you are together, "in bed." When he is working his mouth down your chest. Around your side.

When he reaches for you, for that part of you that is reaching for him. It can be--challenging to hold oneself in a stationary position in such a situation.

"God, stop wiggling, Cas!"

"It is--difficult for me to remain still," I tried to say, but my ability to speak had been compromised, it seemed, for what came out was more of a breathy whine and a cool echo of his name, twisted and falling and--

He grinned against my stomach, and his laughter shook my legs.

"I know," he said softly. "I know. But baby, you gotta try. I don't wanna hurt you."

"Dean," I said, seriously, for this was a point that I had wished to clarify for some time. "It does not make sense for you to refer to me as your 'baby.'"

He slumped down, buried his face in my hip. "Oh jesus, not now--" he groaned.

"Because, as you know, I am at least several millennia older than you are, in human terms, and thus, if anyone should be referred to as a 'baby' in this context, it would be you. Not me."

He snorted, shaking his head. Pushed his amusement into my skin for a minute.

Then he lifted his eyes. "You done?" he asked, smiling, moving. "Or is there somethin' else you wanted ta add?"

I tried to focus on what he was saying and not on his hands, which were digging rather pleasantly into my sides. On his mouth, which he was running over my ribs.

"I believe I have--oh!" and words failed me for a moment as he started using his teeth, which was a sure sign that he knew his was the weaker position, that I had correctly outlined the logical linguistic usage in this particular situation, but--"that I have, um--sufficiently explained why it does not make sense for you to refer to me as--Dean!" I yelped, as he dragged his tongue down and over the tip of my cock. Which, again, served as further proof that he knew that he was wrong and I was right and that he was only delaying the inevitable.

I craned my neck, pushed away from the pillows, trying to see his face. He tipped his head up and gave me a dark, wolfish grin that made my knees shake and my breath rattle in my chest.

"Now," he said, holding my gaze, keeping his mouth far too close to my skin, so close that I had difficulty hearing what he was saying, so loud was the whisper of his words across my body. "I'd say that when my tongue is this close to your cock, Cas," and here he demonstrated the advantages of his proximity, "I can call you whatever the fuck I want."

"Ummmm," I managed, and it sounded like I was being strangled. Which I was. By green and gold eyes and rough, insistent fingers and lips that were far too soft and by his voice, low and sure and heavy with something I could not identify.

"I'm sorry, what?" he said, chuckling. Rounded his tongue around the head of my cock.

"Uhhh," I slurred, hiding my face in my arm, under my elbow.

He laughed again, then nuzzled the base of my cock until I was pushing myself against his face, panting, repeating his name like a rosary, my whole body trembling with. Possibility.

He raised his head and winked at me, his eyes glittering with amusement. "Yes, baby," he said, settling his arms over my thighs and dropping his head back down. "Yeah. Let me have your cock."

And what could I say?

Truthfully, in that moment, I could say nothing that might further my position.

So. I waited for another opportunity.

He was sprawled across my lap, his back against the arm of the sofa, his shoulder cutting comfortably into mine, twirling a beer bottle in his hands. Yelling at the television set. To be more precise, he was shouting at the image of men dressed in black and white stripes, a group of whom were gathered in the middle of a green--field of some kind.

"Oh come on!" he barked, throwing his arms up. "How is that a penalty?! He barely touched the guy!"

"Dean," I said, tapping his chest. "I am fairly certain that they cannot hear you."

"What? Of course, they--I know that, Cas!" he snapped, still glaring at the television.

"Then why do you continue to speak when you know your words are futile?"

He looked at me. "Because--because it's hard for me to just sit here and WATCH THESE MORONS hand Tom Brady the game on a fucking platter!" he bellowed, turning his face to the ceiling. "Jesus! Can't you just let them play? This is PROFESSIONAL football, you know!" he shouted, and he actually shook his fist at the television, which, again, struck me as a wasted gesture. Humans seem to have an infinite capacity for such moves.

My movement, however, was not wasted. I leaned over and kissed his neck, right under his jaw. Felt his pulse jump under my lips, which was very pleasant.

"So why do you watch this--game, if it makes you so unhappy?" I asked, not moving my head, letting my mouth work over his throat. My fingers crawl over his arm.

"Because it's a--because--oh Cas, oh, you bastard," he sighed, leaning into me, turning his head and opening his mouth.

He slid his arms around my neck, the beer bottle tapping my shoulder as we kissed. I held his waist in one arm and stroked his side with the other, slipping my hand under his shirt and pulling the heat from his body with my palm.

Then I planted my hand on his chest, pushed him down, sliding my legs from under his body. I draped myself over him, keeping my tongue locked in the back of his throat. He dropped the bottle, groaning, and reached for me, shoving his hands under my shirt and pressing them into my back.

I started moving against him, my hips driving down into his, my cock sliding over his own.

He made a beautiful sound and dug his fingernails into my back. Drove my body down harder. Faster.

I tugged his tongue through my teeth and he groaned again, shoving himself up, pushing our bodies together.

"Yes, Dean," I murmured against his lips, feeling him swelling under me. "Yes, baby, yes, like that, I want to--"

He pushed me away all at once and I sat up, gasping. Confused. Looked back down at him. At the strange look on his face.

"Dude, look, no. _No_. I am not your 'baby,'" he managed, trying to catch his breath. "Just--no."

I blinked. My intention had been to arouse, not to insult. Clearly, I had misunderstood the proper usage of this term.

"But," I said, feeling my body shift, feeling it start to push into his again of its own accord. "I--I do not understand. You wish to call me 'baby.' It seems to bring you pleasure to do so. So then why do you not--"

He caught my hips in his hands, stopped me, stilled me. Looked up into my face.

"Cas," he said. Serious. A tone I had rarely heard from him. It sounded--odd. "It's just a thing with me, ok? I'm not--I don't want you to call me that, all right? I don't like it."

I looked down into his eyes and even through my haze I could see that he was distressed by this topic of conversation. I realized then that perhaps this argument was, in fact, more complicated that I had thought.

"I will do as you wish," I said gravely, and that made him laugh. Which may have been my intention.

He grabbed my shirt in his fists and yanked me back down. "I wish for you to kiss me, you idiot," he breathed, and so I did.

So, here, as before: I failed to resolve the question.

But I was not the one who brought it up again.

It was Dean.

We were heading back to meet Sam, to "put the band back together," as Dean put it. Whatever that means.

It was late and Dean was not sleeping. Neither was I, but then, I can hold the needs of my vessel at bay. I do not need to sleep.

Dean, however, does. He becomes quite unpleasant if he goes more than two nights in a row without at least five hours of sleep. When I had pointed this out to him some weeks before, he denied it at first. And then he seemed resigned. Accused me of making him soft. After I proved to him that this was, in fact, the direct opposite of what I could "make" him, he laughed at himself. Told me that he was getting old, which, because it was late, and because he was naked, flushed and spent and beautiful in my arms, I ignored the utter incorrectness of this statement. I kissed him instead and told him to go to sleep, and, for once, he did as he was told.

But now he could not get to sleep. Could not seem to relax.

And I, it seems, was not helping.

"Cas," he said with a sigh, his voice louder in the dark. "You just gonna sit there and stare at me all night?"

"I am waiting to see if you will be able to fall asleep," I said from the armchair.

"Oh, awesome," he groaned, rolling over. "Because nothing helps me sleep like an angel on Neighborhood Watch."

I said nothing. There are times when it is better not to point out to a human how nonsensical their way of speaking can be.

After a while, he sat up and growled, "Get your ass over here," and there was something in his voice that I could not ignore. Well. It is his voice. Much as I might like to sometimes, I can never simply--ignore it.

I went to the bed and he pulled me down beside him.

"Wait, why are you wearing your coat again?" he said, chuckling, tugging at it.

"I--I got dressed," I said. Surely he could remember? Perhaps not. "After you came on my hands and after I came in your mouth approximately an hour ago. It seemed reasonable to get dressed, after that."

He snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah, sure, ok. But your coat? Really? You expecting a rainstorm in here, Cas?"

I started to respond but he leaned down and kissed me, pushed a knee between my legs and covered me with his body. I reached up, stroked his back and his hips and his thighs, his skin vibrating under my hands. He had seen no need to get dressed, which, at the moment, gave him a distinct advantage. Over me.

I moaned and he sat up, still chuckling. Ran his hand over my belt. Over my cock. And stopped.

"Hmmm," he said, and I could hear him smiling. "Well well. Somethin' you wanna share with the class?"

I--I was not able to speak, exactly, but I arched my back, pushed myself against his hand, and that seemed a sufficient response.

"Hmmm," he repeated, humming, sliding his body down my leg, keeping his hand locked around my cock. "Well then."

I started shaking, and suddenly my clothes my coat felt like ropes that were holding me fast and keeping my body away from him, the feel of his skin from mine, and I tried to sit up, tried to shrug out of my coat, but he just pushed me down with his free hand, laughing.

"Oh no," he said. "No, no, Cas. You're the one who put these damn things back on. Now you gotta face the consequences." And he squeezed my cock, gently, but just enough to make me cry out, and then he had my fly open, my cock in his palm, and my mouth began to operate without my consent.

It is safe to say that he is the only one of our father's creatures who has exhibited this particular skill.

"Oh! Dean, yes, oh--" I heard my voice echo in the air around us, but I was not aware of my mouth moving, of the words forming, of anything but his hands on me. "Fuck! Oh, fuck, Dean, fuck, please--"

He pulled me, hard. Harder. And his voice dropped to match it.

"Please what? Hmm? I'm gonna make you come, Cas. Isn't that what you want?"

"Yes! No--yes, oh, please, Dean, please--" I had no idea what I was saying, what I wanted, who I was.

His hand stilled, went soft, started stroking me gently, and that was worse, oh that was so much worse.

"Cas," he said, in a voice I loved to hear, low and secret and soft. "Oh, baby, you're beautiful, you're so beautiful when you're like this, so hard, baby, yes, oh, Cas--"

And at this point, you might think, based on my previous statements, that I regained sufficient coherence to question him on this point, to puzzle out the particular meanings of this term to him, of why he wished to use it but not to hear it. Of what role it had played in his life, before.

But I defy you to think clearly, to give a fuck that you cannot even remember your own name when he is touching you like that, when he is talking to you in that voice, when he is pouring everything into his fingers and his only goal is to please you, to make you shoot all over his hand or in his mouth or onto his body, to make you call his name in the dark, for his is the only name that matters.

I struggled, trying to will my clothes that stupid coat to fall away so he could touch all of me like that, but I couldn't, and his hands kept moving, and his mouth kept dripping honey in my ears, and I wanted him to win, I wanted him to be right, and so I gave myself over to him. Completely.

"Dean," I said, I tried to say, my voice getting scrambled somewhere between my mouth and my hips, between my tongue and his lips brushing the tip of my cock. "Dean, please. Please!"

He was breathing hard and his hands started to shake, his body wavering over mine.

"Yeah," he said, still pulling, still stroking. "Yeah. I know. I know. I know what you want, baby." And he did something with his fist his fingers that send sparks up my legs, that collided in my cock and I broke all over his hands his chest and I screamed something that might have been his name, or a curse, or an ancient Sumarian bread recipe--whatever it was, he swallowed it when he kissed me, deep and sweet and amused.

He laid down beside me, chuckling, rolling around in the folds of my coat.

"Yeah, you're gonna need to get that dry cleaned," he said.

"You are proud of yourself," I said, my voice rough and ragged in my throat.

"Oh hell yes," he said, curling his body into mine. I could feel his cock relaxing, dropping against my hip. He seemed--satisfied, although I had not--

I reached for him and he swatted me away, dropped my hands over his waist instead.

"No way," he said, resting his mouth near my ear. "You're not touching me when you're this out of it."

I made a sound of protest. "But I--I want to please you, I--"

He grinned against my skin.

"Oh you will, baby. Don't worry. But not right now. I want your full attention, and, frankly, you couldn't fucking tie your shoes right now."

I wiggled my feet. Just to be certain.

"Dean, my shoes _are_ tied."

He laughed. "My point exactly. Now shut up, Cas. I gotta get some sleep."

I thought about this.

"Okay," I said, eventually, but he was already gone, snoring gently into my ear.

Sometimes, when you are arguing with a human, it can be difficult to know what victory looks like.

In this case, I would call it a draw.


End file.
